Every Breath Becomes A Prayer
by MayFairy
Summary: An encounter with some pirates sends Clara overboard in the middle of the storm. The Doctor manages to save her, but it's much too close for comfort. [Whouffaldi, near drowning fic with angst and then fluff.]


**Requested by whouffaldi-that-is-all on Tumblr.**

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The water is warm. Given how many planets the Doctor has been to in his lifetimes, there shouldn't be anything on a level as basic as this that surprises him anymore, but it does, this time.

It's probably the thunderstorm. The howling wind and the chopping waves that had raged so fiercely underneath Clara as the pirate held her over the side of the ship by her throat, and threatened to drop her if the Doctor came any closer.

The Doctor had been sure he could talk the Sarkanian down. He'd been wrong.

In his mind he can still see Clara falling, still hear the sound of her scream, feel the blood pounding in his ears as he had watched with horror as her tiny form had hit the waves with a clap and instantly disappeared.

Of course, within a second he had forgotten about the Sarkanian's existence and dove overboard after her with no preparation but a shout of her name.

And now, the warm water envelops him as he tries to see her, tries to make out her form in the darkness. It's hopeless. He digs in his pockets for a light, anything that might help, and finds a little flashlight he is able to shine through the dark, churning depths around him.

Panic seizes his hearts when he still can't see anything, but then they leap in his chest when he sees the familiar shape in the water some distance away. It's an effort to swim over to her, the churning current working against him with every push of his arms and legs, but he eventually gets to her.

She isn't conscious.

He can't let himself focus on that now, he can only hold her to his chest with one arm and use the other and his legs to push him towards the surface.

His respiratory bypass stops him from getting too oxygen-starved, but it still takes much longer than he would like, if only because he's worried about Clara.

Finally, he breaks the surface and gulps in the humid air, looking around. The TARDIS had landed on a tiny island, one he can just make out now, not too far off. The island, when they had landed, had been occupied by a band of pirates - well, mercenaries, they called themselves - who had stopped to restock on water and food.

It hadn't taken long for the Doctor and Clara to be taken as hostages, but then things had gone sour quickly, and now they were both overboard.

But he can get to the island. He can do it. Humans might have pitiful lung capacity, and pretty much laughable physiology in general, but they are also surprisingly resilient, especially when it comes to clinging to life, and there is none stronger than Clara Oswald.

All the same, worry has a tight grasp on both of his hearts. It almost chokes him as he swims for shore, but he ignores it, letting the mantra of _she cannot die she cannot die she cannot die_ drive him on. She is still against his chest, and he shifts her to get a better grip, kissing her hair almost absently.

"Almost there, Clara, just hold on," he murmurs. There is, of course, no reply.

The waves carry them in for the final leg and the Doctor and his aching arms are relieved.

The Time Lord and human are washed up on the dark sand, the warm water lapping at their legs, and the Doctor coughs out seawater, before pulling Clara just a bit higher up the sand.

"Clara," he says, leaning over her, hands ghosting over her face. "Oh, Clara, Clara, why did you have to be so… obtuse?" He feels his lips twitch. "Yeah, I know, this coming from me."

She isn't breathing, and when he checks her pulse, it's barely there.

He opens up her airway, braces his hands against her chest, and starts compressions. Not too hard, not enough to break her, but hard enough. He counts and lets his mind focus on the numbers, because the alternative is thinking about how her pulse had felt like it was fading.

Pause in compressions.

He lowers his head and covers her mouth with his, breathing as much oxygen into her as he can.

 _come on come on come on come on come on_

He starts the compressions again, a bit harder, fuelled by even more desperation. "What was that you said to me, Clara? You die with the next person. You do not die with _me_."

Another dip down, breathing into her with everything that he has. He stares, waits, and checks her pulse. He's not even sure if he can make it out, or if it's his hopeful imagination.

" _No!"_ He shouts, slapping the sand with his palms before taking a deep breath, planting his hands back on her chest, and starting the compressions again. He will not allow this to happen. To keep Clara Oswald alive, he thinks he might just tear down the very sky above him, and that thought is terrifying, but somehow still not as terrifying as the prospect of Clara being dead.

He's shaking violently by the time he again leans over her mouth. He will not give up, not ever, but the fear is coming in fast and cold and it's threatening to break down his resolve.

And then she starts coughing up water, coughing violently and trembling in his arms as she clutches at him blindly.

"Doctor," she says weakly, water dribbling from her mouth.

He's so relieved that he can't speak, not even just to say her name. All he can do is hold her close to him, so close it probably hurts. She's okay. She's alive.

"You're shaking," Clara realises.

"So are you," he retorts, with about half of his usual energy.

"Also… you're hugging me."

"I'm not hugging you."

"Kind of are, a bit."

"This is holding. It's completely different."

"If you say so."

"I do," he says gruffly, tucking her head under his chin, closing his eyes and letting his fingers trail down her neck to feel her pulse, getting ever more steady. The thrum against his fingers helps calm his still racing hearts.

When Clara speaks again, some thirty seven seconds later, her voice has changed slightly. It's stronger, but also less certain. "Well. This _is_ different."

He figures she probably means that he hasn't let go of her yet. He knows he should, that he's not meant to like the touching. (It _does_ tend to make him uncomfortable, but it's different with Clara. Clara is his friend, his everything; touches from Clara are good, touches from Clara are safe, mostly.)

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "It was just a lot closer than I would have liked."

"Don't have to be sorry," Clara says. "It's… nice."

"It is?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"… I'm sorry for getting thrown overboard."

He finds himself chuckling. "Well, trust you to offend the captain within four minutes of hoisting anchor."

"It was an accident!" Clara says defensively. "And you're one to talk! Eight and a half times out of ten, when we go somewhere and offend a local, that's on _you_. You and your Scottishness."

"Eight and a half times out of ten?"

"Yep."

"Is that an official, technical statistic, that one?" he asks, lips twitching. He glances down to see that her cheeks have started flushing, and he's relieved to finally see some colour in them.

"Shut up," she mumbles. He just grins at her. "Put me back in the ocean, if you're going to be a dick."

"I can if you like, the water's nice and warm, lovely this time of year around the equator-"

"I take it back, don't even joke about that," Clara says. "It's bad enough that you, what, probably had to dive in after me like a dramatic hero after his damsel in distress? That's embarrassing for both of us."

"Don't worry, Clara, I'm fairly sure half the time _I'm_ the damsel," he jokes, before frowning and adding, "though don't ever tell _anyone_ I said that. I've only admitted that to one person before, and I'm still waiting for her to give me crap for it, somewhere down the line."

Clara laughs a little. "Okay, well I can deal with the taking turns thing, I think. I quite like being the dramatic hero."

"And what a fine job of it you do," he tells her.

She smiles. "You're not too bad yourself."

The Doctor hadn't realised until now just how close their faces were, as they sit on the beach with her torso cradled against his. He's not sure he's been this close to Clara for so long at any point in either of the lives he has known her.

She seems to have noticed too, and a strange quiet falls between them. Her eyes – so big and brown and beautiful, so endless – stare at him. Her fingers trace the line of his lips.

"Thank you for saving me," she whispers.

"Thank you for not dying. It really improved my day."

A funny little laugh escapes her. "If the universe wants to take me away from you, it's going to need to try a lot harder than that."

He rolls his eyes. "There's still no need to give it an invitation."

"Shhh," she says softly, and sits up a bit in his arms.

Their faces are even closer together now. The Doctor thinks his brain might be short-circuiting, because surely he should have something clever to say right about now, but there's nothing. There's just Clara's face, wide and round and so expressive and so intent on him.

Her hand brushes his cheek and he leans into the touch a little, surprising the both of them.

Clara leans in closer, eyes darting up from his lips to his eyes, giving him time to pull away, seemingly checking if he isn't okay with what he's fairly sure she's about to do.

Frankly, he doesn't really know how he feels about it, or about her - except that he needs her, needs her in some innate way, and that he wants the closeness in any way it will come.

Clara's lips meet his, soft and sweet and tasting of the warm seawater. It's been a while since he kissed anyone – had it been her, or Tasha, in his last body? – but luckily he's found over the centuries that it's not the sort of thing one tends to forget. Admittedly a few of his past selves, the last one included, are simply too awkward to react well to this sort of thing, but it seems this body is not among that number.

It takes him a moment, but then he's pulling Clara against him and kissing her back deeply. She lets out a little sigh against his mouth, and it's soothing and wonderful and everything is just _Clara_.

When they stop for breath, Clara offers him a little smile.

"Not bad, old man," she says.

He chuckles. "Still got a few tricks left, me."

"Yeah?"

"If you keep up this not dying thing, you might even get to see them."

Clara's eyes sparkle as they regard him. "Is that a promise?"

"Might be," he replies, smirking. "Now, come on, TARDIS. I'd like to check you over in the infirmary, make sure you're definitely okay."

He gets up, lifting her in his arms easily - she's so small, and that's normally funny, but today it's a relief more than anything else - and carrying her up the beach and towards the blue box he can just about make out in the distance.

"I can probably walk, you know, you don't have to carry me," Clara says, but she doesn't sound annoyed, more amused than anything else.

"It's fine, you barely weigh anything to me. It's like carrying a doll or a particularly round cabbage."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just call me a cabbage."

"Don't take it personally. I like cabbage. It's an underappreciated vegetable."

Clara is silent. He glances down at her, and she's chewing on the inside of her mouth, her lips trying to curl upwards into a smile anyway.

"What?"

"You're ridiculous," she says, but it's definitely fond, and he feels his chest warm a little in a ridiculous, besotted sort of way he would absolutely deny if anyone knew to ask about it.

"Proudly."

They make it to the TARDIS, and inside. A quick check from the infirmary lets him know that Clara should be absolutely fine after a bit of rest, and they automatically head back to the console room.

"Right, well, I'm probably going to do some tinkering, or… something," the Doctor says, his hands sliding into his pockets as he looks back at her. She's sitting on the jumpseat with a blanket draped around her shoulders to make up for the fact that they'd taken her soaked jumper off in the infirmary and her thin shirt is clinging to her and a bit translucent. "You should sleep. Sleep is the greatest healer of them all. You know, except for some of the really clever stuff from this one hospital that-"

"I get the point, Doctor, don't worry, I'm going," Clara says, smiling. "I'm exhausted."

"Good, good," he says, nodding as she gets up and moves to kiss his cheek in farewell. She doesn't get far, however, before she turns back and looks at him.

"Maybe you could… stay with me tonight," she suggests, biting her lip, eyes warm if a little shy. "And, you know. Check there aren't going to be any side effects from the whole almost drowning thing."

The Doctor blinks at her, taking a moment to catch her meaning. "Yeah. Yeah, possibly a good idea. I could do that."

Clara smiles at him, brightly, and holds out her hand to him. He reaches for it, takes it, and even allows her to slide her fingers between his, as she gently leads him out of the console room.

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